Chapter 23
LUCA
She is glowing.
That is the first thought that crosses my mind when I see Rosalina descending the stairs in the soft afternoon light filtering through the front windows.
She is wearing one of my t-shirts—oversized and hanging off one shoulder—and a pair of shorts, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she looks absolutely radiant.
Pregnant.
The word keeps echoing in my head, settling deeper each time, becoming more real. Rosalina is pregnant. With my baby or Dante's baby or Gabriel's baby, and it doesn’t matter whose because she is ours and the baby is ours and everything about this is ours.
"Ready?" I ask, and my voice comes out rougher than intended.
She nods, her hand instinctively moving to her still-flat stomach in a gesture I have noticed her doing more frequently since last night. "Where are we going again?"
"Surprise." I offer her my arm, grinning when she rolls her eyes but takes it anyway. "Trust me, Fiorella. You are going to love it."
"That is what you said before you took me shopping and got us kicked out of a fitting room," she points out, but there is amusement in her voice.
"We were not kicked out. We were politely asked to leave. There is a difference."
"Semantics."
I help her into the car, my hand lingering on her lower back longer than necessary, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of my shirt.
God, she is beautiful. She has always been beautiful—from the moment I first saw her walking down that aisle in a wedding dress meant for someone else, fierce and defiant and absolutely captivating.
But now, knowing she is carrying our child, she is devastating.
I cannot stop looking at her as I slide into the driver's seat.
The curve of her jaw. The way her lips are slightly parted as she stares out the window.
The delicate line of her throat that I want to put my mouth on.
The soft swell of her breasts beneath my t-shirt that seem fuller than they were a week ago, or maybe I am just noticing more now.
Everything about her is more. More beautiful, more precious, more mine.
Ours, I correct myself. More ours.
"Luca," she says, and I realize I have been staring at her instead of starting the car. "Are you okay?"
"Perfect," I tell her honestly. "Just—you look beautiful today."
She laughs, glancing down at herself. "I am wearing your old t-shirt and no makeup."
"Exactly." I reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers trail down her neck. "Beautiful."
The drive takes twenty minutes, and I spend most of it sneaking glances at her when I should be watching the road.
The way the sunlight catches in her hair.
The way she bites her bottom lip when she is thinking.
The way her hand keeps returning to her stomach like she is checking to make sure the baby is still there, still real.
I want to put my hand there too. Want to feel where our child is growing. Want to press my palm against her skin and imagine the tiny life taking shape inside her.
Later, I promise myself. There will be time for that later.
The spa is tucked away on a quiet street in the West Village, unassuming from the outside but luxurious within. I called ahead this morning while Rosalina was still sleeping, booked the entire place for the afternoon so we would have complete privacy.
She needs this. Needs to relax, to be pampered, to forget about Patrick and bombs and impossible choices for a few hours. Needs to just exist as Rosalina—my Rosalina—instead of someone carrying the weight of the world.
"A spa?" she asks as I help her out of the car, and there is surprise in her voice. "You brought me to a spa?"
"You have been through hell," I say simply, guiding her toward the entrance with my hand on her lower back. "You deserve to be taken care of."
The owner—a small Japanese woman named Akiko who owes Dante a favor—greets us with a bow and leads us through the tranquil space. Everything is designed for serenity—soft lighting, the sound of water trickling somewhere, the smell of eucalyptus and lavender in the air.
"We have prepared the private suite as requested," Akiko says, opening a door at the end of a hallway. "Everything you need is inside. Take as much time as you wish."
The room is perfect. A large soaking tub dominates one corner, already filled with steaming water and scattered with rose petals. Candles flicker on every surface, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Plush robes hang on hooks, and a small table holds tea and fruit and other refreshments.
"Luca," Rosalina breathes, turning to look at me with wide eyes. "This is—"
"For you," I interrupt gently. "To help you relax. To remind you that you are precious and deserve to be pampered."
Her eyes fill with tears—those hormonal tears I am learning to recognize—and she launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing her face against my chest.
"Thank you," she mumbles against my shirt. "Thank you for this."
I hold her close, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the way she fits perfectly against me. "Anything for you, Bella. Always anything for you."
Akiko slips out discreetly, closing the door behind her, and we are alone in the candlelit room with steam rising from the tub and the weight of everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours hanging between us.
"Come on," I say softly, pulling back and taking her hand. "Let me take care of you."
I help her out of my t-shirt—she is not wearing a bra underneath, and the sight of her bare breasts makes my mouth go dry—and then the shorts, leaving her standing naked in the soft light.
She is self-conscious, I can see it in the way she tries to cover herself with her arms, but I catch her wrists gently.
"Do not hide from me," I murmur, letting my eyes travel over every inch of her with undisguised appreciation. "You are so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you."
"Luca—"
"I mean it." I trace one finger down the center of her chest, between her breasts, down to her stomach where I spread my palm flat. "Especially now. Knowing you are carrying our baby. God, Rosalina, you have no idea what you do to me."
She shivers under my touch, and I see her pupils dilate, see the way her breathing picks up. "You are supposed to be helping me relax," she says, but her voice is breathy.
"I am helping you relax," I assure her, guiding her toward the tub. "Just—later. After you have had a proper soak."
I help her into the water, watching the way her eyes flutter closed as the heat envelops her, the way her body seems to melt into the tub with a sigh of pure contentment.
Beautiful. She is so goddamn beautiful.
I strip off my own clothes quickly and slide into the tub behind her, pulling her back against my chest so she is cradled between my legs. She makes a small sound of protest that quickly turns into a hum of pleasure as I start massaging her shoulders.
"Relax," I murmur against her ear. "Just feel this. Feel me taking care of you."
My hands glide down her sides, over the swell of her hips, and find the generous curves of her ass. I knead the firm flesh, my thumbs pressing into the tense muscle there. She whimpers, a soft, surrendering sound, and grinds back against my erection. The friction is maddening, a delicious torment.
"Patience," I whisper, nipping at her earlobe. "Let me open you up for me."
My hands slide forward, over her lower belly, and she gasps as my fingers delve into the hot, slick space between her thighs. She’s already so wet. I trace her folds, finding her clit, already swollen and eager.
Yes.
I circle the sensitive bud slowly, then with more purpose. Her breathing hitches, becomes ragged. Her head lolls against my shoulder, and she pushes her hips against my hand, seeking more pressure, more friction.
"You like that, don't you?" I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. "My perfect girl, so ready for me. So greedy for it."
I slip two fingers inside her, and her inner walls flutter around me, tight and welcoming. I crook my fingers, finding that sweet spot inside her, and stroke it relentlessly as my thumb continues its work on her clit.
"I can feel how much you want me," I growl. "Your pretty little cunt is clenching on my fingers like it’s begging for my cock. Are you begging, Rosalina?"
She moans, a raw, unfiltered sound. "Yes. God, Luca, please."
"Please, what?"
"Please… I need you inside me."
That’s all the invitation I need. I withdraw my fingers, bringing them to my lips to taste her. She watches me, her eyes dark with lust, as I suck her essence from my skin. "So sweet," I say. "Now, turn around. Ride me."
I help her pivot in the water, her legs straddling my hips. The water sloshes around us. She braces her hands on my shoulders, and I take my aching length in my hand, guiding the head to her entrance. For a moment, I just hold it there, teasing us both.
"Look at me," I command.
Her gaze, glazed with desire, meets mine.
"Take me," I say.
She sinks down, impaling herself on me in one slow, exquisite slide. The sensation is blinding. Heat. Wet, tight velvet. A perfect, soul-deep fit. A groan is ripped from my chest as she seats herself fully, taking me to the hilt.
"Fuck," I hiss. "So good. You feel so fucking good."
For a moment, she just sits there, letting us both adjust to the overwhelming feeling of being joined. Her inner muscles pulse around me, a gentle, possessive massage. Then, I grip her hips, my fingers digging into her soft flesh.
"Now," I say, my voice rough. "Ride me. Hard and fast. Show me how much you need this. Show me you’re my good little slut."
The words, a mix of praise and degradation, send a visible shudder through her. Her eyes flare with a new intensity. She leans forward, her breasts brushing my chest, and begins to move.